


Viscera

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Drama, M/M, Plot What Plot, S/M, b/d
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 00:49:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/792121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Very short, only a snippet. Jim suffers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Viscera

**Author's Note:**

> Guess I'm in a mood, this is the result. Thanks to Subrosa for her speedy beta, and thanks to boyd and Cen for cheering.

## Viscera

by Virg Vaughn

Author's webpage: <http://www.squidge.org/~virgule/index.html>

Author's disclaimer: Suits own the world. I own the angst.

* * *

Viscera  
by Virg Vaughn   
virgule@squidge.org 

The smoke from the candles, the scent of melting wax, clogs his throat. His eyes water. Is it the sting of the smoke or something else that causes his tears to flow? The candlelight flickers with the draft caused by another observer entering the room. Someone else to look at him, to watch and listen. He doesn't care. 

Bathed in his sweat, beaten down in his nakedness, nothing else matters. The steady smack, smack, slap of the flogger is the only thing that seems real. The rhythm is real, the pain is real, and if it goes on long enough, if he suffers enough, maybe just maybe, he'll be real. 

Sweat beads and pools on his face, dripping down into his eyes. He can convince himself that it is simple sweat and not tears. He can convince himself that the sweat will release him, release and free all the poisons in his body, the poisons in his soul. 

Now the flogger is traded for the strap. It hurts, oh lord, it hurts it hurtsithurts. So good. Strapped into place on the cross, he can't move, can't brace himself. His legs and arms begin to tremble with the force of the pain, of the agony that seeps into him and makes his joints ache. 

The cane is last. The wicked whistle that makes his stomach clench, then turn liquid. The anticipation of the screaming lighting bolt that slams into him and tears away his walls. It takes everything from him. As his flesh parts, it opens him to his soul, everything secret is ripped away. He throws his head back and howls. Enough! Enough, god please, enough. Make it end. Make it all end. The words ring in his head -- echoing -- soundless. 

Finally there is silence. And more dark. Warm, soft hands that release him and comfort him, bathing away his sweat and his blood and his tears. Quiet. Such peaceful quiet. A silence that is beyond his reach everywhere else. Except this place. This shining moment of peace. 

He wants to stay there. He wants to resist the hands that take him out of the silence, coaxing him into his clothes, returning him to the world. 

His truck falters and wheezes, sputters and chokes before it turns over and begins an arrhythmic chugging. The air is cold, bitingly so, but it feels good and clean after the smoke and the smells of wax and sweat and pain. 

Before he knows how he got there, he is home. The mundane covering of his life envelops him. 

"Hey Jim, how's it going?" Light glints off the surface of the glasses, hiding the eyes that he can't meet, the eyes that watch him so carefully. 

"Fine, Chief. Everything's fine," he answers. And it is fine. He's fine. He's had his moments of darkness and this temporal, surface life is enough for him again. He can once again be all veneer and clean and unknown. 

"So what were you up to, tonight?" Simple question. Straight forward, without real curiosity. And he's relieved, because for a moment it's too close and he knows that he could crack, could split open and shatter. 

The pause becomes a little too long and he gathers himself. What can he say? He searches desperately for the correct words, the careless inflection that will conceal and console. 

"Just out. Hanging out, seeing some old friends." Would they be enough? Would the smooth and false facade be unbroken? 

"Hey, that's good. It's always nice to see old friends." 

Yes. Good. Nice. He can do that. He can be that. And if somewhere inside, his soul cries for more, what does it matter? The one who matters most is the most deceived. If he wanted it otherwise, he would change. Wouldn't he? 

He climbs the stairs to his loft slowly, hiding the deep ache of muscles and torn skin. How odd that the old, faded scent of Blair's meditation candles can make his eyes sting and water.... 

* * *

End

 


End file.
